


Open Window

by burkygirl, Peetabreadgirl, Xerxia



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 06:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8001739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burkygirl/pseuds/burkygirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peetabreadgirl/pseuds/Peetabreadgirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xerxia/pseuds/Xerxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peeta Mellark's quiet life is changed forever when a mysterious woman moves in upstairs, filling his world with music. Based on the OTP Prompt - Imagine your OTP as neighbors. A tends to sing at night and normally B would complain but their voice is really nice and they often find themselves comforted by it. One day, A’s songs start becoming more and more depressed and sometimes they’d stop because they were crying. B gets worried and starts talking to A to cheer them up/find out what’s wrong. Turns out A’s partner cheated on them/family member died/whatever and they’d started feeling a little depressed. A and B become close friends and after a while, A starts singing love songs at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Window

**Author's Note:**

> A/N - Collaborating with your fan girl besties is the best! Xerxia is up next.

Peeta dried the last pan and slid it into the cupboard of his microscopic kitchen. He hung the dish towel over the handle on the oven door and heaved a sigh of satisfaction at having another quiet meal in his own apartment. No bakery talk. No snipes from his mother about what one of them did wrong that day. Just peace and quiet.  That alone was worth every cent he was paying grumpy old Haymitch Abernathy in rent.

His mother had been furious when he’d announced he was moving out. He’d ignored her protests and her smug assertions that he’d never find a decent place he could afford on what they paid him at the bakery.

And even though this little apartment in the dumpy Victorian house on the waterfront wasn't what anyone would consider ideal, it had one very important feature: it wasn't his parents’ house.

A door banged closed over his head, and he glanced up in surprise. Haymitch had grunted something about his niece temporarily moving in upstairs last week as he shuffled past Peeta on his bi-weekly pilgrimage to refill his liquor cabinet. She must have moved in while he was at work. He hoped she wasn't a night owl. Working at the bakery was bad enough on a good night's sleep.

He wandered down the short hallway to his room and threw his window open to the summer night. Joggers were slogging their way down the trail beside the river while sailboats slipped through the water. His fingers itched for his paint brushes, but that would have to wait until the weekend. A cool breeze blew off the water and he smiled. There would be good sleeping tonight.

Peeta pushed away from the window. He really needed to get to sleep if he was going to be able to work the 4 a.m. shift at the bakery without burning himself. After a quick shower, he settled into bed with a book. He was just drifting off to sleep when he heard the patio door of the apartment upstairs slide open. His new neighbour pulled out a chair and he listened as she settled down. There was a soft sigh, followed by the steady ping-ping-ping of a guitar being tuned.

He cursed under his breath. If she was going to start making a racket up there, he was going to have to close the window and he _hated_ to sleep with it closed. Years of living over the relentless heat of the bakery made it practically impossible to sleep without a little fresh air blowing in. But, it wasn’t like he could complain. It wasn’t her fault he went to bed at the same time as a kindergartener. It was just the price he had to pay until he could finally sell some of his art and get his name out there.

It sounded like she was doing some kind of finger exercise, plucking up and down the strings before settling into a steady strum pattern. It was kind of pleasant actually, to listen to the rhythm of the guitar as the birds chirped goodnight to each other in the trees. Peeta punched the pillow a few times and then settled into it, closing his eyes once more, before allowing the music to drift over him and send him off to sleep.

He awoke the next morning with an unexpected energy in his step and hummed his way through the morning bread making. It was proofing in the pans and he was on his third batch of cookies when his mother came down the stairs just before opening. She looked around for something to criticize and finding nothing, griped about the coffee not being fresh enough before closeting herself in the bakery office. His father came down to take over the ovens and Peeta settled himself at the cake decorating station to get started on a wedding cake they had to complete before the weekend.

His brother Rye came in just after nine to clean up the breakfast rush and get the sandwiches and soups ready for lunch. The lunch crowd was steady, but friendly, which meant that his father and brother could handle it on their own and Peeta got to stay at the cake table uninterrupted.  

Lunch was over and his brother was doing clean-up in the front when his father passed by the cake table, broom in hand.

“Someone’s got an earworm.”

Peeta paused in the middle of piping an elaborate mauve buttercream rose. “What?”

His father chuckled. “You’ve been humming to yourself all day. The same tune over and over. What is it?”

A blush raced up his neck and his cheeks felt hot. “Sorry. I have no idea. I woke up with it in my head. The woman who lives upstairs was playing her guitar last night. Maybe I heard it in my sleep.”

His dad’s shoulders bobbed up and down as he laughed. His thick hand fell reassuringly on Peeta’s shoulder. “Well, it’s time to clean up here, Peeta. You’ve put in a full day. The cake looks great.”

Peeta wasted no time in getting out of the bakery. His decorating tools were soon washed and left to dry on the rack. He hoofed it back to his apartment with a sack full of chocolate chip cookies in his fist, determined to get in a few hours of work on his canvases before bed. As he turned up the walk, Haymitch shuffled toward him in his slippers.

“Boy,” acknowledged his surly landlord, snatching his newspaper off the end of the driveway. He was still in his bathrobe and his chin covered in salt-and-pepper stubble.

“Hey, Haymitch.”

Haymitch scowled in reply and scratched  the belly of his dirty t-shirt. “Rent’s due at the end of the week. Don’t forget.”

Peeta bit his tongue as they started up the driveway toward the house. He always paid his rent on time, but he decided instead to be grateful that Haymitch had just provided him the opening he was looking for. “Not to worry, man. I’ll have it to you. Hey, I heard the new tenant upstairs last night. Must feel good -- to have the place full, I mean. A little more income.” He held his breath in case Haymitch offered up any information about their musical neighbour.

Haymitch eyed him suspiciously. Clearly he knew what Peeta was up to. “Sweetheart’s only here temporarily. She lives in New York most of the time. Don’t make sense for her to pay two rents when my place is empty.”

Peeta thought back to his apartment hunt a few months previous. Haymitch had shown him both units at the time. The upstairs apartment was much larger than his, and cost a fair bit more to rent too.

“That was kind of you, Haymitch.” He was pleased to hear that he’d successfully kept the surprise out of his voice.

His landlord scoffed. “My sister’s daughter. Going through a rough time right now.”

Peeta swung the front door open and Haymitch passed by him on his way to his door. Before Peeta could quiz him further, he shut himself back inside. Instead of crossing the hallway to his door, Peeta climbed the stairs and knocked on the door at the top of the steps. No answer. He rifled through his jacket pockets for the pencil stub he always carried with him, just in case. Finding it, he quickly  scrawled ‘welcome to the building' on the bag of cookies and headed back downstairs.

Hours later, long after he should have been getting ready for bed, Peeta was still painting in his living room. The sun was starting to set over the river and he figured he only had a few more minutes of good light left to capture it. It didn’t matter that it was past his bedtime. The girl upstairs hadn’t started to play until about this time the night before and he’d done just fine all day. He was cleaning his brushes in the kitchen when he heard the balcony door open and close. His eyes flicked to the door to his apartment. She had walked right past it and he hadn’t heard a thing.

Her deck chair scraped across the wood floor and then he heard a bang as the guitar hit something. "Shit," she hissed, and then there were more shuffling noises as she settled into her chair. He wondered whether she'd found the cookies. He hadn’t thought to sign his name, but she had to know Haymitch certainly wouldn't be bothered with something like that. She was doing her finger exercises again by the time he'd finished straightening up the living room and was settled onto the couch with a beer, enjoying the evening breeze and deciding whether or not to call it a night.

The echo of her hand slapping against the guitar drew his attention back to his patio door. The picking and tuning stopped. She counted softly under her breath, _two_ , _three_ , _four_ , and then a familiar strum pattern wafted through the window, not the one he'd been humming today, but something that had been playing almost daily on the radio recently. It was catchy and poignant, a tale of first love found. He smiled softly, assuming his new neighbour was likely a young girl. But when her voice began to caress the words, she sounded nothing like the voice on the radio. Instead of the breathless sweetness he was used to, the lyrics flowed from a husky voice that reminded him of well-aged whiskey poured over ice at the end of a long day. The innocence of the melody disappeared and it became one of longing and remembrance.

The hair on his arms stood up as his skin tingled. The birds outside the window fell silent, unable or unwilling to compete with her.

Setting the empty beer can on the coffee table, Peeta stretched out on the couch enjoying the sound of her voice as it washed over him, imagining how it would feel to have someone speak those words to him. There had been girls, of course, with soft lips and willing bodies. But he had yet to meet the one who made him feel like the attraction was more than physical, that it was something real.

The final notes of her song faded away and Peeta sat up, collecting his beer can and dumping out the dregs into the kitchen sink. All was quiet upstairs except for what sounded like the crackle of paper on the breeze. He padded down the hall to his bathroom and took a quick shower before settling into bed. He'd no sooner turned out the light when the guitar began again, and her lovely voice wrapped around him once more, humming the tune that had been in his head all day.

He closed his eyes and relaxed as her voice reached out to him in the growing darkness of the summer night. But then the humming turned to words and he felt as though he'd been electrified.

 

_Do you remember?_

_When we were young_

_Do you remember?_

_God it’s been so long_

_We were running wild_

_It was just you ‘n me_

_Didn’t matter_

_How bad it got_

_We were together and that’s how it’s supposed to be._

 

_I’ll be your shelter._

_I’ll be your sun._

_I’ll be the wind that_

_Blows you along._

_You don’t be afraid_

_Cuz I’m here, we’ll be strong_

_No matter what_

_You’re never alone._

 

He was certain now that he'd never heard this song before, not once in the endless hours that the local radio station played over the speakers in the bakery. The faceless woman upstairs was writing music, he realized, with lyrics designed to break his heart.

Peeta awoke the next morning with a stiff neck. The music was still rolling around in his head as he swallowed two Tylenol and got dressed. He hiked down the street to work, remembering Haymitch’s words. _She’s going through a tough time._ What did that mean? Had she broken up with a boyfriend? He really hoped there wasn’t a boyfriend. He was spending way too much energy already thinking about a woman he’d never met.

His mother was coming downstairs as he opened the back door of the bakery. Her face contorted into a sneer when she saw him. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she snarled like he was a teenager sneaking in from an all-night rave rather than a grown man ,10 minutes early for work.

Peeta ignored her. He usually did. It was easier. Instead, he crossed to the coffeemaker, flicked it on and began gathering the ingredients and tools for cheese buns.

“Don’t put so much cheese in the buns,” his mother warned. “You always put in too much and we can’t sell them for what they cost.” Peeta gave his mother a cool look, unwrapped the aged cheddar and began to grate it. “Did you hear me?”

The mound of shredded cheese continued to pile beside him. “We’re famous for our cheese buns. They bring people in the door and they don’t sell when we do it your way.”

She was on him in an instant, her arm extended to slap his face. “You insolent ba-”

He caught her by the wrist just seconds before she made contact. A look that promised trouble crossed his face as he squeezed her wrist. “You might want to rethink that.” His voice was cold, purposeful. “I’m not seven anymore, Mother.”

Her eyes shifted to the leg he’d broken the morning she’d pushed him down the stairs and onto the bakery floor from the apartment above. Peeta’s father had done some serious dancing with the authorities to keep his wife out of jail and his sons under his roof. With a huff, his mother yanked her arms away and stormed into the office, slamming the door. The pans still rattled in the cupboards when his father came in.

“What’s up with Mother,” he asked as he poured himself some coffee.

“The usual,” Peeta grunted as he began to knead the dough.

“You know, Peet-”

Peeta’s hands stilled in the bowl and he shot his father a look. “Dad, don’t.” There were days it was hard not to hate him for not being the man they’d needed growing up. He shook his head and returned to his work. “Don’t make excuses for her. It only makes it worse.”

His father stared into his coffee cup, lost in thought. He sighed and then turned toward the cooler where the morning’s bread had been proofing overnight. “Bread looks good. I’ll turn the ovens on.”

By noon, Peeta was exhausted. His mother had sulked in the office all day, his father running interference. Rye brought a bowl of soup over to the cake table and placed it beside him.

“Eat,” he ordered. “I make the best chicken vegetable in three counties.” Peeta obliged him, pushing back from the wedding cake and taking the bowl and spoon in hand, inhaling the flavourful aroma.

“So good,” he said, scooping up a bite filled with root vegetables and rich broth. “Thanks, man.” He nodded at the waterfall of fondant roses that were spilling over the side of the cake. “I think this one’s gonna kill me.”

“Better you than me,” Rye said cheerfully. His brother made amazing soups and sandwiches that kept the bakery hopping in the afternoons, but he had no patience for cakes. Rye wiggled his eyebrows at his brother. “The cheese buns sold well.”

Peeta rolled his eyes. “Shit disturber.” He cracked his knuckles and then settled back in at his table. “Put two buns aside for me, will you?”

Six months, he thought. He only had to give it six more months.

“You aren’t serious about that?” Rye looked at him in surprise. Had he said that out loud?

“I promised Dad a year, Rye. If I can’t get my art career going from here in a year, then I’m gone. New York, probably.”

“Peet-”

“Case closed, Rye.” He tried not to feel guilty about his brother’s disappointed face. Rye could leave too. Hell, they could leave together, start a food truck and sell his paintings on the sidewalk. He pushed the guilt aside and refocused on his work.

An hour later, the cake was stowed in the cooler, ready for pick-up, and Peeta was on his way home, the bag of cheese buns clutched in his fist.


End file.
